Wish in Kind
by a tattered rose
Summary: "They were watching each other without seeing. Maybe they could have been, and that was the problem. If they hadn't met like they did, if there'd been no Karen, if it wasn't Bombshell, if, if, if." Giving Derek and Ivy a little dignity, a little closure.


The last two weeks of Previews rolled by in a blur, each night better than the last as kinks ironed out, transitions tightened, and missed cues found their place. The audiences always applauded, the seats stayed full.

She never found him again, and he never went looking. They were professionals.

Every night, before he fell asleep, he looked back at the day, wished she had, wished he had. Then the alarm went off and there was always another run through, another cue change, another rewritten line.

They'd been back in New York for a week, prod staff busy collecting notes and reviews, laying out a plan forwards. A storm of activity from morning 'til night, halted only when Tom leaned back on the couch, rubbing his eyes, Julia smiling in satisfaction. Enough, they declared, and Eileen agreed. They had everything they needed, and after a two week break the real work would begin.

He toyed with his models as the sun set, flipped page after page as the scant stars winked. His bed felt uneven, tipping him off no matter where he sprawled. His couch felt alright, but the large empty space was so quiet that his own breathing distracted him, the mark of a pencil ran off course as the buzz of the refrigerator crawled up and down his spine.

It was midnight by the time he gave up, shrugged his jacket on and strode out the door.

The door opened into darkness, and it took him a moment to figure out why. Half in and half out, he watched her sleep, the spill from the hall catching the gold in her hair, delicate warmth against the cool blue hint of rerouted moonlight.

He was holding his breath, he realized. Waiting.

She didn't stir and he took a step forward, shutting the door with much more care than he had opened it. The first breath had made whatever decision he needed; clean and soft, laced with shampoo and perfume and that silly tea she liked to drink when her voice was strained or when she was upset, and only pretending it was about her voice.

It smelled like Ivy.

Her apartment was tiny, he was leaning over the bed before he knew it, torn between a hunger to watch her, just as she was, and the fear of what she would want him to say when she woke up.

Toeing off his shoes and dropping his jacket onto what was likely a pile of her workout clothes, he sank down on the mattress, eyes never leaving the plane of her cheek. His hand ghosted over the curve of her hip, the tuck of her waist, and she resettled herself with a content sigh.

He matched his breathing to hers, deep and slow, pulling him down into sleep. The air felt full. The bed stayed level. He had, he wished she would.

* * *

She hadn't set the alarm; what was the point? But as the first warm glow trickled through the window habit roused her, slowly, gently, familiar in a way mornings hadn't been, lately.

It hit her just as she moved to stretch out her back. She wasn't alone. Not an insignificant realization. She snapped her eyes shut, trying to remember whatever it was she'd forgotten. Had Sam come over? Tom? She did a quick check for telltale signs of a hangover, before scouring through the horrifying idea that her mother had come down from Connecticut to talk about-

Derek. It was stupid that she knew it was him. Since it was impossible. But the way the mattress dipped, the rhythm of his breathing; it was more than familiar. As was the line of his shoulder, the shock of hair, when she carefully rolled over. That he was still dressed, and stretched on top of the covers was new, and did nothing to soften the pounding of her heart.

Within reach she had a cell phone, a radio, and a lamp, all of them unlikely weapons. Even if she did want to beat him awake and demand to know why he was breaking into her house. What else could he possibly want from her?

Like most things in her life lately, there wasn't really a way to win. By the glow of the clock he wouldn't be awake for a couple hours. If she tried to get dressed he'd rouse enough that she'd have to talk to him. There was no way she was going to run out the door in her nightclothes. And anyway, the thought of leaving Derek alone in her apartment was almost as bad as waking up to find him uninvited in her bed.

They were over. He'd said it himself. Twice.

Maybe Karen had kicked him to the curb. The way she'd been looking at him, great moon eyes and satisfied smiles, they hadn't even waited until Previews were over to start shacking up. Now he was back for leftovers.

Ivy wondered who Karen was trading up for. Probably Dev. If she'd ever had a Dev, she'd never have pushed him away.

The biggest problem really, is that when he woke up they'd have to say something, and there was nothing she wanted to hear from him (well, nothing he'd actually say) and nothing she wanted to say to him (well, nothing that wouldn't end up hurting her worse, in the end.)

"Derek." She kept her voice flat, punctuated by a sharp poke to the spine. Then another, until his brain had jumpstarted, and he fell onto his back, looking blearily up at her.

"Ivy?"

His early morning languid gravel was something she missed, along with the way it made her shiver, just a bit. Careless fingers brushed against hers where they lay on the cover by his side. She missed that too. He wasn't a casual toucher (well, not with her, with Karen...), and she had always liked these unplanned moments best. When she'd felt like he wanted to touch her, just for contact. Not specifically petting her while he worked, or calming her down, or guiding her to the bed for, well, you know.

She snatched her hand back.

It would be nice if the last few weeks had all been a dream. They'd never gone to Boston. They'd never brought Boston back to New York.

It took a minute before he stopped looking baffled, and started looking more awake than she'd ever seen him at this hour, pushing himself up on one arm. "Ivy."

"Go away." He'd used his "listen to me" voice. She didn't want a lecture.

"Ivy."

"Get out." And then it was his "be reasonable" voice.

"Ivy."

Now it was his "please" voice, which she'd never quite learned how to deal with.

And that's where they were left. Both of them not knowing what to say, and neither of them looking forwards to hearing it anyway.

She missed those times when she didn't know anything was wrong. Maybe there were times when nothing -had- been wrong.

They were watching each other without seeing. Maybe they could have been, and that was the problem. If they hadn't met like they did, if there'd been no Karen, if it wasn't Bombshell, if, if, if. Now all that was left were regrets for things that couldn't be helped.

"I think," Ivy sat up straighter, letting her eyes fill and a breath of sadness float on her words. "I think you should go."

And he did. She knew he would. It was one of the things she liked about him. Except when she kind of wished he wouldn't.

"Goodbye Derek," she offered, when he silhouetted in the doorway. A dumb thing to say but they deserved a goodbye. They'd been something.

He looked at the floor for a long moment, before pulling his keys from his pocket, fiddling with tiny metallic scrapes until he turned – carefully away from her – to lay one on her kitchen counter.

"Goodbye Ivy."

At least he'd let her say it first. And then he'd said it back.

Even if she kind of wished, as she wiped her cheeks, that neither one had meant it.


End file.
